A Skirmish With Wolves
by Nilmereth
Summary: A short story set in the 4th age. Aragorn encounters his former hobbit companions on the road, they encounter a pack of hungry wolves, and a skirmish results. The fight that ensues is vivid and violent. No wolves were harmed in the production of t


He lies on the ground, his eyes focused upon the heavens above. His eyes pick out various constellations- the dragon like a snake, the bear that the hobbits call a ladle and, his personal favorite, the valiant ranger with his loyal hounds by his side. He sighs, wishing he had hounds of his own. Companions are always welcome when trekking hard lands. He thinks about the throne he's not sure he wants, but knows he must have. Strange, most men would give anything short of their life to be ruler of a land so wondrous as Gondor, but all he wants is hounds and a cottage with his family. He shifts his thoughts to his love, the beautiful Arwen, who is the Evenstar of her people - Elves. How strange and wondrous that his destiny should lie alongside that of a being so different from himself, a being so much more elegant and lovely.  
He hears a crack from the trees, and is at instant attention, his hands and feet moving with perfect ease. His keen grey eyes spot a shadow at the edge of his vision. He tightens his hold on his sword's hilt, making the leather creak. As he creeps up to the shadow his feet make hardly a rustle, evidence of his boyhood among the silent and graceful Elves. He raises his eyebrows and lowers his weapon at a giggle that escapes the trees. From them step a young couple, both just over 4 feet. They jump at the tall shadow of a man. He carries a long sword, a thing never seen in these now peaceful lands.  
He steps into a ray of moonlight, illumining his features in sharp profile. The Ranger leans toward the Hobbits, as if trying to better see their faces. He gives a harsh laugh of surprise.  
"Samwise Gamgee! and with Rosie Cotton, no less!" He sounds as if he hasn't spoken in many a day.  
"Pardon, Mister Aragorn, Sir. Didn't mean to disturb you, many pardons!" squeaks a startled Sam.  
Aragorn smiles, "No trouble. I wasn't asleep, merely deep in thought. Rosie, I don't suppose your pa knows-" he stops abruptly and motions for silence. His ears prick at a small noise from the bushes. Out tumble two small forms, instantly recognizable as the tricksters Merry and Pippin. Pippin whispers furiously at Merry, and both suddenly freeze as they notice the trio that are now smirking at the duo.  
"It's looking to be a reunion! Why, it would hardly surprise me if Frodo stepped out of the Blessed Realm and straight into this clearing," the Ranger darts looks around, as if Frodo might be hiding somewhere near. "What brings you two adventurers out tonight?"  
"We were, um," Merry glances at Pippin, "stealing mushrooms!"  
"Right, stealing mushrooms," Pippin instantly agrees.  
Strider quirks an eyebrow at the uncomfortable hobbits, "So, when did you and Sam tie the knot?" he inquires of Rosie.  
"Oh, didn't you know? Surely- didn't you get the invite? Well, apparently not. Sam and I are married, as of one month ago," Rosie beams at Strider.  
"Congratulations! And do you-" he stops with a sigh. A rustle comes from the trees. "And here's Legolas and Gimli," Aragorn says with sarcasm, "The Fellowship reunites!"  
But from the trees leap not friend, but wolves, all with foaming mouths and the glint of hunger in their eyes. The ranger pulls his sword, and his eyes dart from rabid beast to unarmed hobbit. There are 14 wolves to 4 hobbits and a concerned ranger. He steps to the front of his little war band, and attempts to stare down the pack's leader. But the brute is too determined. The wolf seeks to remedy the ribs showing under his fur. Strider jumps forward and puts his sword tip to the leader's chest. He knows what it's like to hunger, and would rather not shed the blood of a desperate animal. The dog is relentless, and in a mad moment, leaps into the sword blade, letting out a howl of pain as the steel blade permeates the flesh. His lifeblood spills to the dead pine needles, turning them a deep crimson. Angry, the wolves leap at Strider at once, nearly overwhelming him.  
A lone wolf stalks toward Sam and Rosie. Sam pulls from his coat a pocket blade. He grips it hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "Stay behind me, Rosie!" He snarls at the wolf, and pokes the knife to its eye. His hand trembles, but his Rosie is precious to him. A quick swipe to the jugular, and the opposition is finished. The wolf lets out a gurgle before its eyes glaze over.  
Another wolf comes at Merry and Pippin. Pippin draws the dagger he wears as a memento. The shining blade has twining vines inlaid upon it, and the perfectly balanced hilt is wrapped in silver strips engraved with the artisan's symbol. Pippin hasn't had a good fight in a long time, and he milks it for all it's worth. He jabs, slashes, and blocks invisible enemies while carefully missing the wolf itself. The dog's ears are flat against its scull, and it bounds at the ready Pippin. Pippin side steps, making the dog skid around to face Pippin again. As the wolf runs at Pippin, Pippin jabs, making a deep puncture wound just above the heart. The wolf howls in agony, and Pippin mercifully ends its suffering.  
Strider continues to struggle with the others. A particularly brave beast has made a long tear in the Ranger's chest, and paid for the maneuver with its life. Five of its comrades lay scattered to the left and right of the heavily bleeding ranger.  
Five desperate brutes remain. "Go home, brave hounds. You don't have a chance, and I do not wish for more slaughter," Strider calmly says to the dogs. The dogs stop panting and sit, looking at the ranger quizzically. One comes up to the ranger with its head bowed, a sign of submission. Strider kneels and pats the dogs head. The wolf joins its fellows, and they vanish into the trees.  
At that moment an orange sun rises above the trees, flooding the ground with color. Strider kneels to his pack and pulls out a week's meat provision. He places it just outside of the clearing. A shaggy grey head appears and sniffs the food approvingly. He grabs it with his teeth, and disappears back into the trees.  
They all spend the morning digging graves for the fallen wolves, who Strider says deserve as much. Strider cleans his gash in a nearby stream, and wraps it in linen before replacing his light leather armor.  
Goodbyes are said, and the ranger vanishes back into the trees to resume his returning trek home to his waiting throne. 


End file.
